Naked Came the Stranger

by Penelope Ashe

  “The Baron, Taylor.”

  “I see him, Emily.”

  “He’s rolling fast,” Emily said. “Real fast.”

  “He sure to God is,” Taylor said. He felt perspiration at the back of his neck. “That ol’ bastard can really roll.”

  “Mrs. Gillian Blake?” Emily said.

  “Yeh,” Taylor said. “Hold her, Emily. Get her some coffee. Show her the new computer setup or something. Hold her until I get the Baron out of here.”

  The Baron was about a third of the way through the huge room, rolling now, as Emily said, fast, real fast. He spun the wheelchair deftly down the narrow lane between the account executives’ alcoves and the adding machine girls, picking up speed in the wide stretch between Taylor’s office and the first row of girls.

  “He ain’t stopping,” Taylor said to himself. “He’s coming on.”

  Trouble now. Copy of the Ladies Home Journal on the Baron’s lap, bouncing on his lap, while he rolled with both hands in his wheel chair. The old skinny arms, pumping, pumping in his black suit, and the little silver round head pointed right straight at Taylor’s office, and rolling on, the old skinny arms and the old little silver round head, rolling on.

  “Old sonofabitch,” Taylor said.

  Can’t get to my coat, he thought, no use trying to put it on. Straightening tie, smoothing papers on the desk. Take off the sunglasses, he see my eyes. Leave sunglasses on, he think I’m drunk? Phone buzzing.

  “Yeh?”

  “Taylor”—it was Emily—“Mrs. Blake doesn’t want coffee. Doesn’t want to see the computers. She wants to see you. She.…”

  “Jesus, Emily, tell her … tell her.…” The Baron fifteen feet out now, slackening speed, rolling for Taylor’s glass door. “Just hold her, Emily.”

  “Taylor, she.…”

  Then, another voice, this one in Taylor’s ear.

  “Taylor,” Gillian said, “I’m not just another ordinary, dissatisfied customer. You know, dear.…”

  And another voice, in front of Taylor.

  “You’ve seen this, Taylor?” The Baron was holding up the magazine. “This is your idea of a small joke?”

  The Baron’s voice, very sharp. And on the phone, Gillian—

  “Taylor, if I wanted to see a computer deck, I’d go over to IBM.”

  “No sir, Baron,” Taylor said. “I haven’t seen the magazine yet. However, if it’s the Honest ad, I can explain—” He had the phone out in front of him, shoulder high, it was breaking his arm, he could feel his hand clamped on it, knuckles splitting. “Gillian, please look at the computers.… I’m sorry, Baron, but the Cigaret Advertising Board said that business about the microfilters couldn’t go.… Mrs. Blake, yes, you’ll find the computers fascinating.…” Knuckles splitting and the phone hanging out there like a big black airplane between him and the Baron. “Gillian … Mrs. Blake … please look at the computers. Call you right back.” Phone down, finally, and hand still cramped, knuckles going to split wide open.

  “Mrs. William Blake?” the Baron said.

  “Yes, sir,” Taylor Hawkes said. “Lives out there in King’s Neck.”

  “I know,” the Baron said. “You seem to forget, the Blakes are my customers. My customers.”

  “Yes, sir,” Taylor said.

  “And I haven’t even seen the Honest ad yet,” the Baron said. “I’m talking about the Smellwell ad. Two pages in color, Taylor, and what do I see? Well?”

  “You see the Smellwell research laboratories,” Taylor said.

  “That is what I see,” the Baron said. “I see six men in white robes fussing, Taylor, fussing with test tubes. What I do not see is Vivian. I do not see Vivian Garland on a gondola in Venice. I do not see the slogan that I take personal credit for—’Tonight’s the night, Vivian, with Smellwell.’ Perhaps this refreshes your memory.”

  “Yes, sir,” Taylor said. “We photographed that, just as you suggested. It was all ready to go and it was killed.”

  “And who may I ask had the temerity …?”

  “The old lady,” Taylor said. “She said she thought the other one, the ‘Tonight’s-the-night’ business, was … she said it was sinful. That was her word, Baron. She said we should bear in mind that Smellwell was a product of modern science, a scientifically manufactured deodorant, and not some aphrodisiac used by Italians.”

  “She said that, Taylor?”

  “You were down on the ranch,” Taylor was relaxing now, “and we didn’t think you should be bothered by something that could be fixed on the spot.”

  “In the future,” the Baron said, “call me. If anyone ever changes something I’ve assumed creative responsibility for, you call me. And if, by any chance, you cannot reach me, you tell the lady—or any client—that we don’t need their business.”

  “Yes, sir,” Taylor said.

  “And Taylor, while you’re at it,” the Baron went on, “I want you to draft a letter to Vivian. To Vivian Garland. I want you to explain to her why this happened. You may tell her, just as you told me, that the decision was yours and that I was not consulted. The letter will be on my desk, with your signature, by tomorrow morning.”

  “Yes, Baron, of course.”

  “Taylor, how long have you been back from lunch?”

  “Oh, some time now,” he said. “Although, it was a long lunch. I had a meeting at lunch with …”—he tried to think of a name, any name—“with Mrs. Belcher, Mrs. Grace Belcher of Roslyn. Planned Parenthood. Fine woman. They’re planning big things over there.”

  “A fine woman,” the Baron said. “I suggested she call you. But anything you do for them, Taylor, you’re on your own time.” He rolled his wheelchair a foot backward, then a foot forward, warming up for the takeoff. “And at the conference tomorrow morning, Taylor, be prepared to tell me about the Honest ad. I will find time tonight to examine it. Be prepared to defend whatever action you decided to take. Good evening, Taylor.”

  A spin on the left wheel turned the chair around, a thrust with the right hand sent it forward. And now, both hands pumping, the Baron was headed through Taylor Hawkes’s glass door and out into the arena of business machines, picking up speed. Taylor watched the back of the Baron’s little silver round head.

  “Godamighty,” Taylor said, “won’t that old bastard ever die?”

  Actually, he liked the Baron, got along with him well many days, respected the sharpness of the old man’s mind, even when he was wrong. Baron Edward Osborne Morgan … one hundred and four years old … in a wheelchair since he was thrown playing polo at age seventy-one … fifty times, and more, a millionaire from investments and full owner of Morgan Advertising … but … but, and this was the part that always got Taylor Hawkes: Taylor’s wife, Sarah, was the Baron’s great-grandniece, his only living relative, and would Taylor be executive vice president of the agency today, if this was not the case?

  Taylor didn’t know. He thought so. He always told himself he would have made it anyway. He had beaten his way up through a string of southern agencies, had entered a Madison Avenue firm and made his way up through copy editing to account executive and, hell, all this was before he married Sarah, great-grandniece and the favorite person in all the world of Baron Edward Osborne Morgan. Hell, he had made it that far, he would have made it to the top, to a partnership, because he understood advertising. He understood the business and he understood the bullshit. You’re damn right he would have. But executive vice president? If he hadn’t married Sarah, would he …?

  Taylor Hawkes watched the little round silver head nearing the far end of the room, then saw the hard pump of the right hand and the wheelchair turning out into the corridor that would take the Baron to his own office at the end of the building.

  The buzzer. He reached for the phone.

  “Taylor, I’m coming in right now,” Gillian said, “ready or not.”

  “Sure, Gillian,” he said. “I’ve been waiting for you.”

  Taylor lifted the sunglasses from the bridge
of his nose, squinted, rubbed his eyes, put the glasses on again. He wouldn’t put on his coat. Standing, he sucked in his stomach and waited, watching as Emily guided Gillian Blake into the room.

  She looks damn good, he thought. Not the greatest body in the world, but something there. Like she was proud of it. Would make you know it, too … crack your back with those good legs.

  What does she want? Last week at the station’s cocktail party, Taylor hadn’t been sure. She had touched his hand when he lighted her cigarette, steadying his hand with her own, but a lot of women do that. And later she had backed that nice round behind against his forearm, hadn’t hurried to move it either, he thought, but maybe that was because he had put his arm in a good place to get it backed into.

  Still.…

  Well, Taylor hadn’t been sure. If he’d been sure, he would have thought of a way before now to see her. He’d been considering a casual way, safe, where if he had been wrong it would only look like the courtesy an ad man might show one of the people he was responsible for sponsoring. And the fact that they were neighbors in King’s Neck was almost enough reason in itself. But, hell, who would believe that?

  She was at the glass door, coming in, Emily stepping back.

  “Hello, Gilly,” he said.

  “God, don’t call me that,” she said. “It sounds like some Lake Michigan fish.”

  “You use it on the radio,” Taylor said.

  “Well, you don’t have to use it,” she said. “You pay me pretty well to use a name like that on the radio. I’m on my own time now.”

  On your own time, Taylor.…

  “Sit down,” he said. “You want some coffee?”

  Still standing, Gillian reached into her bag and pulled out a copy of the New York Times. She thrust it at him in much the manner of the Baron with the Ladies Home Journal.

  “Have you read this?” she said.

  “Sure,” Taylor said. “Sure I’ve read it. What part?”

  “This part,” she said. “This part where their smart-assed critic rips me up.”

  “I didn’t get that far,” Taylor said.

  “Pablum for breakfast,” she said. “The worst show on morning radio. Makes you strangle on your coffee it’s so bad.”

  “Hmmmm,” Taylor said.

  “Hmmmmm hell,” Gillian said. “Do you advertise in this paper?”

  “Gillian, everyone advertises in this paper.”

  “No more,” she said. “I don’t want you to put any more advertising in the Times until that critic loses his job.”

  “Well, now,” Taylor said. “That may not be too easy. No one tells the critics what to write.”

  “Then, I suppose”—Gillian was still standing—“I’d better go see Baron Morgan directly.”

  “Well, now,” Taylor said. “There’s no need to bother him today. Why don’t you just sit down and have some coffee? Let’s us talk about it.”

  Gillian sat down, crossing her legs, her sand-colored dress riding up, showing Taylor a nice three inches above those good knees.

  “I’ve been meaning to call you,” Taylor Hawkes said.

  “You should have,” Gillian said.

  “About tennis … about playing tennis. I couldn’t remember whether your husband played.”

  “No,” Gillian said. “No, he’s stopped. A bad back … or a bad knee or a bad wrist or a bad something. I forget exactly which. He’s stopped almost everything.” She looked directly at Taylor. “But I still play.”

  “Fine,” Taylor said. “We’ll play.”

  “Fine,” Gillian said.

  Her eyes left Taylor. She was looking over his shoulder, through the secretaries’ office and toward the front driveway.

  “What are they doing?” she asked. “That car, the back.…”

  Taylor looked out. “Oh, they’re rollin’ him in. You’ve never seen the Baron’s car?”

  Taylor had watched it a hundred times; hell, a thousand times; he’d watched it so many times he wasn’t even aware any more that he was watching it. Louie, the Baron’s chauffeur, was out there now, the same as always, letting down the back of the custom-built car. It dropped down just like the tailgate of a truck, except that it reached the pavement, making a ramp. The Baron, in his wheelchair, was back about twenty feet, getting ready to roll, getting ready to build up the speed that would take him into the car. And Old Lady Minnie, the Baron’s secretary for forty-one years, was out there, same as always, her arms waving like an out-of-control kite, trying to help roll the Baron and he was waving back, same as always, saying, if you were out there so you could hear him, “Get back, Minnie! Get back, Louie!” Nobody rolled Baron Edward Osborne Morgan; he could make it himself.

  “My God,” Gillian said. “He almost sailed through the front seat.”

  “Naw,” Taylor said. “He can stop it on a dime. That old bastard can really roll. He’s just got to get up that speed to make the ramp. That’s his special big-wheeled, high-speed chair.”

  “God,” Gillian said.

  “He’s got about five wheelchairs,” Taylor said. “Got a black one over at the estate. And a silver one for parties. And a couple around here. Got a little business wheelchair … comes down here in it.… I swear to God that’s the fastest little wheelchair I ever saw in my whole life.”

  Gillian tapped a cigarette on her long left thumbnail and Taylor stood up. As he extended a match, she cupped her hand on his, letting her hand linger, he thought, after he had blown out the flame. He looked out into the big room and saw that three of the girls had turned around and were watching him.

  “You’re kin to the Baron, aren’t you?” Gillian said.

  “No,” Taylor said. He looked out again at the room. “No, it’s my wife. She’s his great-grandniece.”

  “Oh, yes,” Gillian said. “I remember that. I met your wife at the station.… I can’t remember her name.”

  “Sarah.”

  “Oh, yes,” Gillian said. “I knew it was something from the Bible. She seemed nice.”

  “Thanks,” Taylor said.

  “Yes, I remember all of it now,” Gillian said. “Somebody … a woman … she’d been drinking an awful lot … said the Baron just adores Sarah and that you wouldn’t be where you are unless.…”

  “Well, that’s a bunch of …,” Taylor cut himself off. “I … ah, the hell with those bitches.”

  “Why, it made you mad,” Gillian said. “I’m sorry. I thought it was funny.”

  “Yeah,” Taylor said. “Funny.”

  Gillian stood up and walked around Taylor’s desk. Her arm coming up slowly, her fingertips brushing across Taylor’s jaw.

  “I am sorry,” she said. “It did make you mad.” She stepped back and looked at him. “Well, I’ve done enough. I won’t bother anyone about this smart-assed critic. Call me.”

  “No,” Taylor said. “I mean, no, don’t go. We’ll talk about it.” He stood, fumbling for a cigarette, trying to think of something. “Gillian, could we … Gillian … walk down to the Baron’s office?” He indicated his own three walls of glass. “Quieter there. Great pictures, too. The Baron in the Spanish-American War and World War I and playing polo. And some of his most successful campaigns.”

  “Fine,” Gillian said. “Only I have the strangest feeling you’re going to show me those computers before we’re finished.”

  They walked through the door of Taylor’s office. Taylor paused at Emily’s desk.

  “I’m not expecting any calls, Emily,” he said.

  “Yes, Mr. Hawkes”—she always called him Mr. Hawkes in front of outsiders.

  Not a way in the damn world except to go right through the middle of the room, Taylor thought. Together they started. Pointing to the adding machines, Taylor said, “The adding machines.” And, further on, “Account executives’ offices.” Trying to walk not fast, but not slow, and make it casual. Feeling eyes fixed on his back as they passed girl after girl, and seeing the ones still in front of them and knowing that they were w
aiting for him to pass with Gillian Blake so they could stare, too. And the account executives peering out of their cubby-holes. Those eyes must be eating up the backs of Gillian’s calves and eating up those good muscles of hers under the sand-colored skirt, rolling a little, flexing gently, as Taylor knew those muscles would be.

  “Lots of various campaigns being mapped out here,” Taylor said. “Lots of various campaigns.” He motioned. “This way.” They were out of the room and into the hallway and now were standing, together, in front of the locked doors to the Baron’s office.

  Reaching into his pocket, Taylor brought out a chain and fumbled through the keys to every part of his life: front door of home, ignition key of station wagon, office key, trunk key of Buick, garage door, office desk, safe deposit box, ignition key of Buick.… Somehow, he was afraid that Gillian Blake was going to say, Ah, the hell with it, Taylor, don’t bother … and then he found, and inserted into the lock, the key to the Baron’s office.

  “There you go,” he said, opening the door, stepping aside, then quickly shutting the door behind them. He pointed. “Those are the pictures I told you about.”

  “Yes,” Gillian Blake said. “And that’s a wall and that’s a chair and that’s a rug.” She looked at him. “My, you’re nervous, Taylor.”

  “Well, I wanted you to see the pictures,” Taylor said. “There’s the Baron in the Spanish-American War … and there he is on his hundredth birthday, when we shot off a cannon on the front lawn … and there’s … well, there’re lots of them. And the big campaigns.”

  He reached over her, pointing, his arm across her shoulders.

  “My, God, you’re a countryman,” Gillian said, turning, facing him, standing so close that her breasts touched his chest. “Isn’t there anything else you wanted to show me, Taylor?”

  He pulled her against him, feeling her stomach and thighs press into him. His right hand was on her back, his left at the curve of her waist-buttocks, and his mouth was starting at her neck.

  “You’ll rumple my dress, Taylor.”

  “Sweet Jesus, Gillian, I’ve got …”